


Dish and Chips

by ItsAlwaysBloodMagic



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:11:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 13,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic/pseuds/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic
Summary: All of my FFXV Tumblr drabbles, ficlets, and fills in one place.





	1. Freckles. Promptis. General Audiences.

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin. Pairings and rating in the chapter title, warnings and themes in the author's notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Promptis.

Noctis has a friend.

Noctis has a friend, and his friend is a million shifting glances and waving hands and playful jostles. His friend is blue-violet eyes and clumsy stumbles and ten kinds of laughs. His friend is a face full of freckles, more than Noctis can count before the space between them flushes pink. One freckle, just there, stands out. It’s bigger than the rest, oblong, color slightly off, closer to marigolds than honey. It stands out because it matches, matches a beauty mark nestled just below Noctis’ left outer eyelid.

Noctis has a friend, and if Noctis is the stars, his friend is pure sunshine.

****

Prompto has a crush.

Prompto has a crush, and he used to have a dog, and now there is a letter tucked underneath his mattress. A letter begging loyalty, begging friendship.

He can be a friend, if he must.

Prompto’s crush is jet black hair and sideways smiles and piercing gaze. Prompto’s crush is secret passageways and expensive sheets and casual touch. Prompto’s crush is two beauty marks: one teasing a curled lip, the other matching Prompto’s biggest, blotchiest freckle. It draws attention to his eyes, blue-grey and singing songs of darkness.

Prompto has a crush, and Prompto has a hunch. His hunch is this: if he turns, and turns again, they might just fit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be shy about commenting - I love screaming about these boys!
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	2. Rain. Prompto (gen). General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto-centric WOR angst.

Waiting. Fighting. Waiting. Fighting.

Waiting.

Waiting for Noct, waiting for the dawn, waiting until somebody decides it’s time for another meal.

It isn’t fair.

The cold sinks into his bones. His body forgets: is it daytime or night-time?

One, two, three, four, five o'clock.

Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock. 

Wait, did we skip an hour? 

Twelve o'clock, and it’s still dark.

He takes his home with him. Tents, bombed - out hotel rooms, stranger’s beds. Camera on the side table and he’s set. It’s been that way for almost a year; more, if he’s being honest. His home in Insomnia was hardly a home, made up of four empty rooms and a wall full of photographs. And before –

Metal tables, empty corridors, white lab coats. Footsteps echoing. Ten identical children turning their heads, cocking them to the side, blinking in unison. The sound of something hitting the roof, over and over, tap after tap after tap. Comforting, even as it builds in urgency. Starts off a patter, then a trot, then a race to the finish line. Somebody coming, and he knows it’s bad. He has to run, has to run, has to –

He’s bound. They’ve strapped him down and he can’t get his legs to work. An arm wrenches free. He kicks. Falls. 

A sharp pain that smooths out into something duller, something that will bruise in the morning. Rain on the roof of the caravan. 

The caravan. 

No hallways, no tables, no lab coats. No man with the shifting face. No distant chiming, no feathers down a broad back, no green eyes or knives bared to cut. Just the cool, rough texture of thirty-year old carpet; the too-bright glare of floodlights through a slotted window; the insistent hammering of rain against a tin roof. Just memories, flitting around like it’s six in the morning and they’ve got a long day.

He untangles himself and stands, reaches out for the edge of the bed. Reaches further on instinct, finds nothing. No warm body, no soft breath, no mumbled complaints. He is completely, utterly, and totally alone.

It’s cold in the caravan. The blankets are threadbare and there’s a hole in the roof. He pretends not to care, pretends not to arrange the only pillow so it can be cradled close to his chest. He bundles the sheet up around his shoulders, pulls himself into bed, and imagines his tears are the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	3. Mittens. Promptis. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowy Promptis fluff.

It was cold.

Really, really freaking cold.

Noctis missed his bed.

Prompto, just by virtue of being Prompto, had managed to wake Noctis up at the ungodly hour of 3am and drag him out of his perfectly warm apartment - out from under a pile of blankets, for Astrals’ sake – because it was snowing, and Prompto thought it was pretty.

Nobody else could wield that kind of power. Not over their prince.

Which is how Noctis had found his hand clasped in Prompto’s, tugged down the sidewalk at a jog that would have Ignis yelling at him to slow down before he slipped on the ice.

Oh yeah, it was icy too.

And, because he wasn’t fully awake, he’d had no idea what was happening until they were halfway down the stairs. Prompto, once again simply because of who he was, hadn’t bothered to tell him they were going to the park three blocks from the apartment or that the temperature was a balmy twenty-eight degrees. Prompto had only remembered to dress for the weather himself when Noctis offered up his only set of winter clothes. As a result, Noctis was currently wearing a lightweight fall coat unzipped over top of his PJs.

So there they were in the park, Noctis shivering every few seconds and Prompto gazing up at the sky with the biggest, most beautiful grin on his face. Snowflakes were catching on the tips of his bangs and Noctis could swear the moonlight was reflecting off his freckles with how they stood out against his skin. 

It made him want to reach forward and trace them with his thumb, match them to the constellations he knew by heart, kiss every last one, find secret freckles buried in the most unlikely places; in Prompto’s armpit, at the nape of his neck, along the crease of an inner thigh…

“Noct?”

“Huh?” Noctis said absentmindedly, shivering again.

He blinked, and when he opened his eyes Prompto was staring at him.

Scratch that, he was staring at Prompto, and Prompto was watching him stare.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking down. It dawned on him that they were still joined at the hand – his eyes took note but his mind remained blissfully unaware, right up until it didn’t. Prompto seemed to notice at the same time he did, and then they were both staring at their hands, clasped awkwardly and meeting at the palm, Noctis’ bare against the wool of Prompto’s mittens. Noctis knew for a fact that those mittens were lined with the softest fleece he’d ever touched. He wondered if Prompto’s hands were that soft.

“Can I share my mittens?” he asked. He cursed his lips for betraying him.

“What?” Prompto looked confused for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes at Noct’s t-shirt. "Oh wow, Noct. You really didn’t dress for the weather, huh?“

“Nope,” Noctis said, “really didn’t.” He cleared his throat pointedly and poked at his jacket, currently occupied by none other than Prompto. “So you gonna share, or what?”

“Priorities, man, hold on a sec.” Prompto unwound the huge, fluffy scarf – Noct’s huge, fluffy scarf - and draped it over his shoulders, then attempted to zip up his coat, mittens still on. When he got sick of struggling he took them off and pinned them under one arm while he finished the task. He returned to the scarf, wrapping it once, twice, three times. "Dude, I hate to do this to you,“ Prompto said, blowing on his hands, “but it’s too cold to go without gloves.” He started to pull the mittens back on.

“What – no way!“ Noctis grabbed the cuffs of said mittens and shoved in alongside, stretching the fleece lining to accommodate two pairs of hands. His were balled up against Prompto’s palms, thumbs tucked into the middle, and Prompto’s fingers grazed his knuckles before coming to rest over top. He leaned into Prompto and pulled both their arms to his back. Prompto went perfectly still and a blush crept up the side of his neck where Noctis’ nose was pressed against it. 

They were crossing an unspoken line. It shifted more often than either would like to admit; occasionally on the couch, late at night when Noct’s bed looked warm and inviting and big enough for two, and once when they were drunk, hands fumbling in the dark. Noctis was, frankly, too cold to care, so he pressed himself closer and breathed in the scent of Prompto, his best friend, who’d dragged Noctis out in a snowstorm and returned his scarf without realizing it. 

Prompto squeezed his hands and started to pull away. "Buddy, I love you, but you’re right. It’s cold, and I’m – ”

“Nope,” Noctis said, chasing the warmth. Prompto relented, but Noctis could feel him start to squirm, too impatient, all restless energy. 

It filled his chest with pure light, golden and honey and home. 

“I love you too.” He mumbled it quick, into his scarf. Prompto did pull back then, and when his eyes met Noct’s they were searching. 

A thumb ran across his knuckle. "Noct, did you just – “ Prompto bit his lip, hope and fear and uncertainty in one single action.

“Yeah,” Noctis forced out, because how was he supposed to say no to that face? He unclenched his fist and wove their fingers together. 

Foreheads found each other, pressing gently until noses followed suit. Prompto was smiling clear to his ears, and even close up Noctis could see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Say it again,“ he whispered, his breath ghosting along Noctis’ lips.

Noctis said it again, and the words crashed against his teeth like a wave: 

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	4. Begin Again. Promnis. Teen and Up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad, sad Promnis songfic.

_I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm_

Limbs splayed like so many strands of flaxen hair, morning sunlight dancing across the wall.

The memory fades.

_Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm_

Eggs spit in the pan.

I know it by heart.

_Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new_

I am old. So very old.

Theoretically, so are you.

_In city and in forest they smiled like me and you_

A haven.

Yellow feathers, yellow hair, yellow heart.

_But now it’s come to distances and both of us must try_

A boat upon the water.

Sea wind across my face.

_Your eyes are soft with sorrow_

Back of the hand against a mug handle. Coffee black. Eyes lit up.

Sorrow for another time.

_Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye_

Callouses meet the side of a face.

Tears. Then, and now.

_I’m not looking for another as I wander in my time_

Pinprick of stars against an ink-black sky.

A name, etched into stone.

_Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme_

Your arm, ever steady.

Your breath, ever warm. 

_You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me_

Sharp corners of a photograph.

Me, softly smiling.

_It’s just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea_

A lighthouse.

A wish.

_But let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie_

I never was good with fate.

You were hardly better.

_Your eyes are soft with sorrow_

A scratch, needle on vinyl.

Begin again.

_Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye_

“Morning, Iggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	5. Raindrops. Prompto (gen). General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MT!Prompto AU.

Water was falling from the sky. It came in droplets, all out of order, heavy and wet. They shattered where they landed. 

Heavy and wet, and completely impractical. 

A great deal of droplets had already landed on N-1P01357 05953234, and a great deal more were still falling. He’d ducked the first three, but in the end he couldn’t keep up. So he let them fall, and because the first didn’t hurt, he trusted the trend would continue.

A drop landed in his bangs, dribbled down his forehead, and hung there. He stuck out his tongue. When it fell he was able to catch it.

It tasted like water.

The man who was with him made a noise, somewhere between a snort and a cough. N-1P01357 05953234 turned to regard him.

“Sorry,” the man said. "You made a face."

“I was surprised.”

“Surprised? Why, you never seen rain before?”

N-1P01357 05953234 looked up at the sky. A drop splashed into his lashes. When he lowered his gaze the landscape swam, and for a long, disorienting moment he wondered if all landscapes could swim. He blinked and wiped at his eye. It felt dry when he stopped, like cotton was stuck to the socket.

“Is there always rain here?”

“Not in the desert. Further west, in Cleigne and Duscae. But not here in Leide.”

They’d passed through Cleigne not four days ago. He remembered it. There were huge slimy creatures that wrapped their tongues around trees, others that lunged with sharp teeth, and a daemon-like thing, three stories tall, whose body was shaped like a pipe. 

After that the man started letting him keep his gun on his person.

He cupped his palms in front of him, attempting to catch the water that fell from the sky. The man was watching him. He’d been watching him, but this felt different. Less like guarding.

Maybe he was waiting for an answer to his question.

N-1P01357 05953234 didn’t usually speak without explicit instruction, but he’d been assured he was allowed, and he was practicing it. It was nice. Freeing. Like the man said. He was free.

He had a new name. It was Prompto.

“I don’t know.” He considered the question. "I’ve never seen water do this, but we only go outside for training. It’s usually cold. Does it fall where it’s cold?"

A grin broke across the man’s face. He was – maybe bashful? His head was cast down and his hand was scratching his scalp. He kicked at the ground. "Right, you get snow in Gralea.”

Prompto nodded. "Snow," he said. He’d trained in the snow. "It’s the same?”

“Yeah. Snow is frozen water.” He reached out. Prompto moved to the side and raised one arm, taking a defensive position. The man pulled back. "Sorry," he said. "Just, your hair’s in your face, and it’s sticking.”

It wasn’t the first time the man had touched Prompto. Soft pat to the back, a hand on an elbow, a ruffle of hair. Prompto had seen the humans in the lab touch each other like this, but if anyone was reaching for him it was to pull him along or give a correction.

“Can I –” the man said, gesturing. 

“Of course.” He breathed. It helped him hold still. 

The man brushed his bangs from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	6. Morosis. Ignis (gen). General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis has had enough.

**Mo`ro´sis**

Pronunciation: mô`rō´sĭs 

n. 1. (Med.) Idiocy; fatuity; stupidity.

 **Case:** Young Talin Areni is eight months his junior. He has, for some ungodly reason, been allowed a seat on the Council. He currently argues for an embargo on Niflheim.

The boy’s voice is nasally, self-aggrandizing, and two octaves too high.

Ignis wonders if he could drill his fountain pen into his ear without catching the attention of King Regis. He resists the urge, straightening his spine instead. It is perhaps impossible to sit up straighter than he already is, but Ignis is nothing if not up for the challenge. So he sits, focuses on his tailbone, and imagines himself growing taller, one vertebra at a time. It is an exercise learned in his etiquette lessons. He’s been instructed to practice. Lucky for him, an opportunity has presented itself. 

He folds his hands neatly atop the desk and adopts a posture of listening.

The last time Talin took the floor, Ignis made a mistake. He spoke, which is apparently only permitted if one’s name translates to _dense sand._

_Ignis Scientia_ does not.

His insistence that freshwater Cleigne mussels are not a good candidate for trade (by virtue of being _endangered_ ) was politely tamped down by none other than his uncle, the Hand of the King.

_Motion to begin harvest of freshwater Cleigne mussels presented by The Honorable T. Areni. Motion passed with no objections voiced._

The unfortunate truth is that the Council does not put much merit in names. 

When pressed, his uncle stated that Ignis was meant to _only observe_ , so he may better coach Prince Noctis on the intricacies of rulership. Intricacies which, Ignis has learned, do not include such mundane tasks as cross-checking _relevant scientific literature_ against resources slated for trade.

Never mind that The Honorable _Dense Sand_ is eight months his junior.

**Morosis. ******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	7. War. Promptis. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy roadtrip times with hints of Promptis.

The seats in the back of the Regalia are sticky. The top is down, but it’s still hot, and Noctis wishes Ignis would put it up and blast the A/C. But Gladio has to hunch over when the top goes up, and his head still touches the roof.

It’s not Noct’s fault his Shield is so tall.

So he’s sitting in the back trying to nap and occasionally peeling himself off the leather, because, oh yeah, he actually took Gladio’s advice for once and lost the shirt. By the time they’d left Lestallum it was soaked through, and Ignis had refused to let him fetch another from the carefully-packed suitcases that were already locked in the trunk. And Gods forbid he store anything other than weapons in the Armiger. 

(we’re not mentioning the things of his dad’s he’s pulled out of there, because we don’t talk about that.)

His eyes are closed and he’s finally starting to drift, mind made hazy by the heat that feels like it’s boxing him in. He hears a snicker from the front and burrows deeper into the cocoon of sleepiness he’s managed to drum up. The seat next to him creaks with the sound of leather on leather. Gladio is leaning forward.

Whatever they’re talking about had better be good, because they are _this close_ to having a disgruntled, underslept prince on their hands.

Noctis yawns and lets his mind drift. Prompto’s voice becomes a series of nonsensical conversations. The words _catoblepa_ and _chocobo_ and _Noct_ all start to meld together. He is dozing against soft downy feathers and Prompto is down on one knee, interrupting his nap to propose. Which is so sweet, but buddy, come on. Work on your ti-

There’s a splash, and his chest is wet. His eyes snap open and he twists around to glare at Gladio, who is leaning back against the passenger side door with a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s teasing Noctis, bouncing a water balloon in his hand. Noctis lunges for the balloon, and Gladio dodges so it’s above his head, which means that if he were to grab it and squeeze-

He gets a faceful of water. “Fuck!” he cries. "Prompto, what the fuck?" Prompto is in the front seat, laughing and priming a plastic gun. A second stream flies his way, soaking his pants. It’s cool and kind of refreshing, but Noctis isn’t in the mood to admit it, so instead he tries to wrestle the gun away. 

Prompto's hand lands in Ignis’ lap. The car swerves and Ignis hits the brakes, which sends all four of them flying. Gladio loses control of the balloon, lobbing it at Ignis. Ignis' shirt is soaked and some of the water has trickled into his gloves. He gives them a look, eyes narrowed and cold. 

They freeze. The car falls deadly silent.

Prompto’s hands are trembling.

“Prompto,” Ignis says slowly, “would you mind terribly if I were to borrow your water gun?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	8. Cathedral. Promptis. Teen and Up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet older boys being sweet.

Prompto stands in the middle of the cathedral, clutching his camera to his chest, and stares up.

“Close your mouth,” Noctis says, “before you swallow a fly.”

He swats in Noct’s direction absentmindedly, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. The whole building is black with gold detailing, lit up only by candles and the sunlight that filters through the stained glass windows. Distorted shadows of the Astrals dance across the space. They glint and wink. Holy light plays off gilded filigree.

The ceiling is an homage to death. Tiny gold skulls stand out against a backdrop of black. The Lucis Caelums have marked this place as belonging to them, and everybody who walks through the doors is touched by that mark.

A suit jacket brushes the cotton of Prompto’s tank top, frayed as it is from decades of wear. Prompto keeps trying to toss it. It keeps coming back, inexplicably showing up in his closet, time after time.

Memories, there: boyhood, first kisses, long days on the road.

Arms wrap tight round his waist. They are strong, having been spared the weight of a ring. Stubble brushes his cheek, familiar and safe.

“Next week,” Noctis murmurs. “I can’t believe it.”

Prompto clasps Noctis’ hands between his, allowing his camera to swing from its strap. He weaves their fingers together and tucks himself back against Noct. “I can,” he replies. "I’ve always been yours."

An intake of breath, sharp and pleased. A turn of the head and he’s claimed. Their kisses used to be frantic, heavy with the knowledge that their time together was limited. They sought out empty classrooms and scalding brick walls, pit stops and moments alone in a tent. This one is long, drawn out, no need to rush. It’s gentle and loving and warm.

There, in the cathedral, time slows. The Astrals cast shapes against their skin. The stories touched lives and they lived; together, triumphant, and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	9. Shine. Ignoct. Teen and up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignoct WOR angst.

He flexed. Released.

An object hit his palm, sleek and cold, oiled at the joints. Gold through and through.

It will look so very regal fastened over freshly-pressed black slacks. The garb of a king.

Someday. When Noctis returns.

Ignis laid the brace across a cloth stained with oil and polish. The rag was drafted into servitude for this purpose and this purpose only, and after six long years the edges were finally fraying. A third of his monthly water rations, right there in that cloth. He was not one to allow an object of such deep significance to meet a soiled surface.

The process was the same, week after week. He tested the joints, one at the knee and both fasteners. Oil to add if they stick. More for the leather. 

Fingers pressed hard. Small circles spiraling out. Cloth to cold metal, gold against the dark night sky.

Start at the calf. Work your way up. Soft caresses just behind the knee. 

It will ache, when Noctis returns.

Beyond that the thigh, and here Ignis paused, because even the brace was enough to send his mind reeling.

Six years without touch will do that to a man.

He breathed deep. Ignored the pricking sensation at the corners of his eyes. Eventually he would have to remove his visor and wipe at the tears, but he could resist the urge for now. He bent back over his work, willing the wave to recede. 

Mid-calf to mid-thigh, again and again and again. Polish ’till it sings.

It will shine, when Noctis returns.

He will be waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	10. Migraine. Promptis. Teen and up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Promptis.

“Uuuuuuughhhhhh,” Noctis whines. He turns over and shoves his head under the nearest pillow.

It hurts.

A lot.

And the noise coming from the living room; well, that’s not helping any.

“Proooommm. Turn it dowwwwnnn.”

Lightning strikes behind his left eye.

Yeah, that didn’t help.

He curses himself. Why does he even try? It’s not like Prompto can hear him over what Ignis would call that incessant racket; i.e. Noctis’ favorite video game. 

It’s being demoted. 

As Noctis figures, he’s got two options: he can stay here, cocooned in his heavy down comforter, with the light-blocking curtains Ignis had the foresight to purchase drawn tight, or he can brave the living room, brave the bright sunlight and booming speakers and adorable blond who happens to be his best friend, and maybe, maybe convince him to turn the damn game off.

A loud BANG! ricochets off the walls, and Noctis swears his entire apartment shakes. A bloom of what would be radiant color if it wasn’t paired with Titan’s fist follows the lightning from earlier. He wonders if this is what it’s like to wake the Astrals. There’s a high-pitched scream followed by sharp laughter and excited yelling. Prompto’s out there alone, being his usual adorable self, and Noctis can’t even enjoy it.

He loves Prompto. 

He kind of hates Prompto right now.

He groans again. Presses the pillow tighter.

The noise doesn’t stop, and eventually Noctis has to admit defeat. He should probably take something for this damn migraine anyhow; the medicine never does much, but at least he can say he tried. He stands, slips his feet into Prompto’s slippers, and wraps the blanket tighter. His hand rests on the doorknob and he braces himself, sucking in a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

His senses are immediately assaulted when he cracks the door open. Sunlight floods his face. Cool air crawls over his bare chest at the same time the rev of an engine worms its way into his ear like a damn drill bit. He cries out, simultaneously trying to shield his eyes, pull the blanket up, and cup his hands over his ears.

It doesn’t work out.

“Prom!” he says. It sounds louder than it probably is, and he winces again. A tuft of blonde hair edges its way over the back of the couch, followed by a pair of familiar violet-blue eyes. In any other circumstance, Prompto half-upside down with his hair sticking out would fluster Noctis so badly he wouldn’t be able to talk; he’d just stand there and blush and try not to look. Right now though; right now he can’t care. He shuffles his way to the couch and reaches over the top. His arm grazes Prompto’s chest on its way to its goal: the game controller, which is about to make his life a lot more tolerable. That, too, would usually elicit blushing and stammering on Noctis’ behalf. As it is, Prompto freezes and looks at him wide-eyed. Noctis doesn’t notice.

Noctis jams his thumb down on the pause button, then gestures vaguely in the direction of the TV. "Noise. Off. Now." Prompto jumps and scrambles around in the cushions. An eternity later and the noise finally fades.

Noctis has been spending said eternity swaying, unsteady on his feet, with his eyes squinted nearly shut. He opens them slowly to find Prompto swiveled around on the couch, arms crossed over the top, studying him.

“Hey, buddy,” Prompto says, now that he’s caught Noctis’ attention. "What’s up?"

Noctis repeats his vague hand wave, having decided that as a communication technique it’s pretty solid. This time he directs it at the window. “Too bright,” he says.

An anxious smile works its way across Prompto’s face. "Oh," he says quietly. He stands and crosses the room, lowering the blinds. "That any better?”

“Not really.” 

Noctis steals Prompto’s spot on the couch. It’s warm, and sitting is easier than standing, so he tucks his knees up to his chest and covers his head with the blanket.

“Noooct, you took my spot!” Prompto chirps in a way that is altogether too cheerful for Noctis’ current state of being. He takes a running jump and lands half on top of Noctis. One leg is in his lap and the other hits his head before landing on his shoulders. Noctis scowls at him, fighting the haze of pain long enough to formulate a plan. He springs into action.

It would have worked.

Would have.

He forgets about his migraine just long enough to land square on top of his best friend. His fingers tease under Prompto’s shirt, going in for tickles that are completely platonic thank you very much. Prompto, predictably, responds with a squeal.

A squeal that might as well be a broadsword for how smoothly it splits Noctis’ head open.

He cries out. His whole body tenses, and he curls his fingers in Prompto’s shirt, squeezing tight. Prompto freezes. One arm encircles Noctis’ shoulder, while the other stops halfway to his hair. "Uh, Noct?" he asks, voice timid. 

Noctis doesn’t answer for what is probably too long. He can’t. It hurts too much. The sunlight is assaulting his eyes and the blanket is trapped under them so there’s nothing to cover his head with.

“You… don’t seem okay,” Prompto says, stone still beneath him.

“Headache,” Noctis mumbles.

A soft “ah”, and Prompto relaxes. It helps, somehow, to feel his friend’s muscles go limp. He relaxes a little bit too and breathes deep. The hand that’s been hovering finally finds his hair, weaving its way in gently without touching his scalp. "That sucks," Prompto says. He shifts around so they’re lying on their sides facing each other, then adds, “you take anything for it?”

“Mmmph.” Noctis shoves his face into the crook of Prompto’s neck. It’s nice in there. Dark. Quiet.

Prompto tenses again. "Uh."

“Sssh.”

“Uh, yeah, okay, I can shush. Um. I guess.” Prompto’s chest moves with his breath, shallow and shaky. He rubs circles into Noctis’ back, teases at Noctis’ hair, stops and clicks his nails together, rubs at his nose, then returns to petting. Noctis reaches up and takes his hand, folding it between them. 

“Quiet.”

Prompto giggles. "I didn’t say anything, dude." He squeezes Noctis’ hand, then squirms. "I, um.”

He seems like he might continue, so Noctis waits. There are a million things he could be doing right now besides lying here, nose buried in his best friend’s collarbone. Get a glass of water, for example, or some pain killers. Or even drag the blanket out from under them so it can be put to proper use. But he doesn’t, because this is nice. His head still hurts, but it’s not as bad as it was. Besides the goosebumps that creep up his back, he can’t really complain. 

So he stays.

He shifts, and Prompto whines. He can feel it where his ear rests against Prompto’s throat. Prompto swallows. He can feel that too. 

“Hey, Noct?”

“Mmm?” Noctis replies. He’s hazy and warm and he might even be able to get a nap out of this.

Fingers dance across the back of his hand, then still.

“Forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	11. Legacy. Ifrit/Shiva, Ignoct. General audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Ifrit and Shiva.

“Specs, tell me a story.”

It was a common refrain, albeit one Ignis hadn’t heard in years. Here was Noctis, however, run through with fever, wrapped in blankets and shivering. Most likely delusional, but who was Ignis to refuse his prince in a moment of need? He swept sweat-dampened hair away from Noct’s face. "Of course,“ he said, "just a moment while I fetch a chair.”

Noctis scooted to the center of the bed. "No," he said, voice taking on a plaintive edge, "sit here.” Had his arms been freed he would have patted the spot newly vacated. As it was, he buried himself deeper in the blankets, until only his eyes and nose stuck out at the top.

Ignis gave an indulging smile. "All right, my prince. If you insist." He sat on the side of the bed, then swung his legs around, settling into a cross-legged position with his back resting against the headboard. Noctis nuzzled into his lap. 

"Now,” Ignis said, “what story would you like to hear?”

“Tell me about Ifrit and Shiva.”

An odd choice, to say the least. It fooled the listener, beginning on a romantic note before quickly descending into a tale of betrayal of the highest magnitude. Betrayal on Ifrit’s behalf, because he spurned his duty to humanity; and on Shiva’s behalf because she turned against her love. 

“Are you sure, Noct?” Ignis asked.

Two arms worked their way around his calf. "Yeah," Noctis said, closing his eyes. 

He would be asleep in mere minutes, Ignis was sure of it.

"If you insist.” Ignis cleared his throat and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. He’d been watching Noctis like a hawk to make sure they did not inadvertently share it; he could hardly afford a day off due to illness. He took a sip, then another one, wetting his tongue. “Shall we begin then?” A nod from the sleeping prince, and Ignis launched into the story. "Long before the Astrals fell into slumber, they acted as guardians of mankind. The Infernian–"

"Ifrit,” Noctis piped up, as though he were a child of eight again.

Ignis chuckled. "Yes, Noct. Ifrit. Now, if I may continue–"

"He loved Shiva.” Noctis tilted his head back and peered up at Ignis. "But she hated people, and he didn’t."

"Not quite, Your Highness.” 

Noctis frowned. "I know the story, Specs," he said.

"Noct. Do you wish me to tell it or not?”

A grumble, and the boy was quiet. 

(Ignis, at thirteen, was leaps and bounds ahead of his liege when it came to matters of maturity; a fact he would never deign to voice aloud.)

“The Six were, by and large, indifferent to the fate of humanity. The Infernian was an exception. He admired humans for their tenacity, and bestowed upon them the gift of fire, so they may warm their hearths and light up the darkness.”

“Can’t see the stars when there’s too many lights,” Noctis mumbled.

“Right.” Ignis let a fond smile settle across his lips. He stroked a thumb across Noctis’ cheekbone. "Although one could argue that a few torches are unlikely to drown out the night sky." 

"Get to the good part.”

“As you wish.” Ignis’ hand migrated to the crown of Noctis’ head, weaving its way through his hair. "Shiva in particular had no love for humanity. She found them weak while Ifrit found them strong, found their hopes and dreams irrational while Ifrit believed them worthy. Shiva’s heart, like the rest of her, was made of ice, and when she showed herself to the people of Solheim, it chilled them to the bone.

"Over time, however, Ifrit’s flame melted Shiva’s frozen heart. She found herself truly and deeply in love. They danced in the heavens, and their love lit up the night sky in the form of shooting stars."

Noctis let out a wistful sigh. "Like our meteor showers."

"Like our meteor showers,” Ignis repeated. He could feel his heart melt at those words. The parallel was not lost on him. "They danced, and the Fulgarian withheld judgement. They danced, and the Hydrean all but ignored them. They danced, and the Draconian laid out a plan, just in case.

"In time, Shiva came to love humanity as Ifrit did. Her melting heart fed the rivers and lakes of Solheim, and the people were blessed. Ifrit, however, was fickle. As Shiva fell in love with humanity, Ifrit grew jealous. He ignored the sacred duty of the Six, swearing instead to raze Solheim to the ground.”

An arm fought its way out from layers of blankets. Ignis felt a sticky palm against his lips, two fingers dipping into his mouth. He scowled and pushed back against them with his tongue. So much for not sharing germs.

“ ’s wrong.”

“Excuse me?” Ignis said, once he managed to extricate the digits from his mouth.

“That’s not how it goes.” Noctis’ arm flopped haphazardly through the air. Ignis caught it and attempted to tuck it back under the covers, but his elbow stuck out at an odd angle, hampering the effort. The result was less than satisfactory. "I want the other story," Noctis said.

Ignis let the arm fall where it may. "Noct, the other telling is hardly historically accurate.”

“Don’t care.”

“The Council has named it blasphemy–”

Noctis sat up, still cocooned in his blanket, and gave Ignis the most endearing glare he’d ever witnessed. “It’s more romantic the other way.” A stubborn and altogether Noctis look crossed his face. "And I’m the prince, so I get to decide."

Well. Ignis couldn’t argue with that. He let out a sigh. "Very well, Highness.”

Noctis settled onto Ignis’ chest, his thumb finding his mouth. It was disgusting; unbecoming for a prince at eleven years of age. "Noct,“ Ignis said, grasping Noctis by the wrist and working his arm back under the blankets. He was successful this time. "Ifrit gave the gift of fire to Solheim, and Shiva bestowed upon them the gift of fresh water. They watched over their human counterparts, caring for them year after year. In many ways, they were like the children they would never had. Humanity was their legacy.

“Humanity, unfortunately, was also rather selfish. The people had expanded in population, and with the growth came technological advancement. They dug deep into the belly of Eos for coal, burning it in Ifrit’s name. As a result, Shiva’s frozen lands began melting. They were feeding Ifrit with one hand while the other robbed Shiva of her strength. Her kisses no longer dusted Ifrit’s cheek with ice; her skin grew clammy and warm. She took to bed and was swiftly unable to rouse herself, not even for the frost-bitten hours of dawn. Ifrit, in contrast, grew stronger and stronger, his fire burning hot across landscapes.

“What was Ifrit to do? Shiva was dying. His people were killing her. She had been correct all along; humanity was weak compared to the Six. His fondness for the people of Solheim was misguided, just as she had believed from the very beginning. 

“Nobody was safe from his wrath. Entire cities were razed with a sweep of his arm, only ashes left in his wake. His people wailed and prayed, constructed effigies of Ifrit and burned them. Ifrit ignored their pleas. He was forsaking his sacred duty, could not bring himself to care. For a world without Shiva meant nothing to him. He would do with it as he wished.

"He let it burn. And the rest of the Astrals, his brethren, showed him no mercy. The Fulgarian judged Ifrit and found him guilty, Bahamut set in motion his plan; a plan that has consequences even now. And Shiva. Well. When all was said and done, Shiva remained loyal to the ones responsible for her undoing. She chose to slander her love, dooming him to death and shaping his story. Her version is the one true version, and this one – this one is told only behind closed doors. It is meant for those who have found true love, those willing to sacrifice all.”

Ignis paused and took his glasses off. He lifted a corner of his shirt and cleaned the lenses, then rubbed at his eyes before returning them to his face. He could feel the rise and fall of Noctis’ chest against his own. "Noct?“ Ignis said, smoothing his bangs off his face. "Are you still awake?”

“Mmmph,” Noctis muttered. “ ’m awake." The words slurred together. 

"Very convincing, Highness." Ignis worked his arm out from where it was curled around Noctis. "I believe we are finished with storytime, if that’s quite all right with you." Noctis snuggled in closer and gripped Ignis’ shirt. 

"Just stay ‘till I fall asleep.”

Ignis chuckled. "That shan’t take long,“ he said. He flexed his feet and raised his arms above his head, stretching.

Predictably, Noctis’ breathing evened out less than five minutes later. Ignis bent one leg at the knee, stirring perhaps a moment too soon.

Noctis cracked an eye open. "Specs?”

“Yes, Noct?” Ignis sighed, resigning himself to fifteen more minutes of sitting quietly with his liege curled against him.

"I wish someone would love me like that,” Noctis murmured into his chest.

Ignis’ heart skipped a beat. “Noctis,” he said slowly, “Ifrit started a war, wiped out a civilization, and may very well have brought the Scourge to Eos.”

“Yeah,” Noctis said, gazing up at him. "But he did it for love." His eyes fluttered closed. "I just wish - y'know, he sacrificed the world for her. And himself, really. I wish I had someone like that." The last few words were so soft Ignis had to lean down to hear them.

“You do,” Ignis murmured. "Never doubt that." He breathed deep, taking in the scent of Noct’s hair, then placed a gentle kiss on his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	12. Cold. Gladnis. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty post-game Gladnis.

The Vesperpool is cold this time of year, with a constant drizzle misting across the landscape. Moss digs its claws into the branches of trees, flourishing in the condensation and creating the perfect environment for cool, damp mornings. Beads of water collect on Gladio’s flannel, dampening his hand when he swipes across the fabric; meanwhile, Ignis’ jacket has amassed pools in the creases. Top layers only serve to reinforce the damp chill that is everywhere here. It sinks into their bones.

“Shall we, then?” Ignis says. His posture is formal and stilted.

“Yeah,” Gladio grunts, voice thick with grief.

Their jackets are fetched from their respective camp chairs. Too wet to bring into the tent, Ignis had proclaimed, and now they face the consequences. Gladio shivers when he slips his on. Ignis grits his teeth and braces himself.

For the cold. For the damp. For what they are about to do.

Their hands find each other with the ease decades. Ignis’ thumb strokes the back of Gladio’s hand. It serves as a touchpoint for both.

It should come as no surprise that the temperature drops when they step through the threshold. The interior of the tomb is protected from the elements, but that hardly seems to matter. Dampness creeps in through cracks in the walls, not yet visible to the naked eye. Over time those walls will crumble, along with the concrete enclosure safeguarding Noctis’ remains.

Somehow the idea is freeing.

Gladio’s eyes mist over with tears. It is fitting for the landscape, fitting for this place. Ignis’ remains dry, but he wipes at them anyway. His breath hitches, catching him off-guard. They stand there, side by side, hand in hand, enshrouded in melancholy. It’s a knife that worries at the seam of a wound, one that’s never quite closed. It serves as a reminder; of the people they were, of who they are now, of the man that was their king. 

Ignis pulls out a handkerchief and holds it to his nose, pinching his nostrils together. It returns to his pocket folded neatly with the damp side facing inward. Two fingers trace up the sleek lines of a fishing pole, coming to rest on stone hands. They are folded as is the custom in death, one over top of the other.

“He should have been buried with his father’s sword.”

“No,” Gladio says gruffly. "He never wanted that."

“You’re protecting him.”

“That’s my job. Or don’t you remember?” Gladio lets go of Ignis’ hand. He begins to fold his arms over his chest, then catches himself. It’s an old battle, long since abandoned, except when it’s not. "Shit,” he says. "Sorry, I–” he chokes on a sob and pulls Ignis close. 

Sweet, soothing words and a kiss to the temple. Lips linger there, soft against hair even softer. Neither one says what they’re thinking: they were never meant to protect him from this. Their duty to the Crown has long past. They are free to be their own people.

“I hate that he’s alone in here,” Ignis admits. “His Shield, at least, should be buried alongside him." He tightens his arms around Gladio and turns his ear to his chest.

Gladio chuckles. "The whole family would have to come with me. Can you imagine? Mom and Dad, Iris eventually, aunts and uncles, grandparents, great grandparents, all the way back.”

“Or simply move Noct to the Amicitia tombs,” Ignis responds, wry smile brushing against dampened flannel.

It would be nice to say that this simple exchange was enough to break through their grief, but things are hardly that simple. Instead, it wraps itself around them, shifting and settling into something resembling comfort.

“I–” Gladio clears his throat. “I want you to be there too, Ignis. With my– our family. And Noct.”

Ignis goes entirely still. When he finally finds his voice, Gladio’s name tumbles out like a blessing. A finger under his chin, Gladio’s lips to his own, and the name becomes both of their names, whispered in tandem.

They break apart, both inside and out. Gladio goes down on one knee.

“Gladiolus Amicitia,” Ignis says, voice breathy with awe. His hand trembles when Gladio takes it. "If you propose to me on the anniversary of Noct’s death, here in his tomb, I swear to the Astrals I will–”

“Fuck the Astrals,” Gladio says. "Marry me."

Their words overlap and the tomb becomes an alembic, distilling and distilling until they are gold. Promises are traced into skin as a ring slips into place, dark as the sky is at night. A king, recently past, gives his blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	13. Caning. Gladnis. Explicit (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP. dom!Ignis, sub!Gladio. Caning.

“On your stomach, Gladiolus. And wipe that cheeky grin off your face. I can smell it from here.” Ignis undid the buckles on his arm braces and moved to set them on the desk. He came up short, grimacing, and cast around for a dust rag.

“Yes, sir,” Gladio said, giving Igins a mock salute. He rolled over and rested his head on his forearms. The bedsprings creaked. “Gonna be loud.”

Blue sparks, and a duster appeared in Ignis’ hand. He ran it over the top of the desk, then deposited the braces. Prim collared shirt followed in its wake, removed with the attention one gives to a task when they know they are being watched. He hung the shirt neatly on the back of the chair. Rolled his shoulders. Adjusted his posture to best frame his back. Trapezius, rhomboid minor, rhomboid major. Grey tank stayed on. It was a good cut. 

One’s appearance is intimately connected to one’s ability to intimidate.

“You are going to be loud, you mean.” 

“Well, yeah,” Gladio said. “Usually am.” His eyes trailed across Ignis’ left deltoid, paused briefly at his shoulder blade, and traveled upward to the nape of his neck. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“Yes,” Ignis said, tone condescending. He moved to the foot of the bed, just out of sight.

“What’s on the menu tonight?”

The question was answered with a pointed silence. Ignis worked slowly, methodically, pulling his chosen implements out of the armiger one at a time. He laid them on the cheap motel dresser. A riding crop. Three floggers, tails of various lengths and thickness. A hairbrush. Two paddles fashioned of wood, one in the shape of a ping pong paddle, the other long and narrow. A third, made of leather and covered in studs. A slapper: three strips of thick leather connected at the handle. A box fastened shut with three clasps. This he opened. Gladio shuddered with each click.

A gloved hand traced over every implement in turn. "Select a letter of the alphabet, please."

“You gonna give me a range?”

“A through M, then.”

“K,” Gladio said immediately. Ignis tsked. 

“When was the last time I rewarded impatience? Good choice, by the way.” He turned his attention to the box, worked a pointer finger into the crevice between soft velvet and the tip of a bamboo cane. Lifted it carefully. "I soaked these yesterday.“

“Shit,” Gladio said through his teeth. His glutes tensed in anticipation.

“Indeed.” A wicked smile, all teeth. Hands up the back of Gladio’s leg, from ankle to the crease in his thigh. "Would you like to select a different letter, or is this acceptable?“ 

Gladio propped himself up on his elbows and twisted to look. "Which one is it?“ 

The whistle of bamboo cutting through air. A white stripe against tan skin, angry red alongside. Gladio braced his arms hard against the bed. His shoulders flexed. He lowered his head with a grunt. Clenched his jaw. Leather dragged across the uneven surface of a welt.

“You’re still wearing your gloves.” 

The drag of a seam, rough against skin. Gladio hissed. "Shit, Ignis, that fucking burns.“ Ignis pressed harder. Continued to drag. 

“If you turn around again, I will blindfold you.”

“Not really a punishment- fuck.”

A second line bloomed into being, just below the first.

“Count to eight.”

“Yeah. No problem,” Gladio said, words forced through his diaphragm.

Bamboo through the air again. A curse, clipped short. 

“One,” Ignis said patiently. Gentle hands across Gladio’s rear. "You are holding your breath.“

Gladio let it out. "No shit. Ah-two!”

Four lines, straight as can be, perfectly spaced. A pause. Tap-tap-tap just below the last welt. Sharp blooming pain. Two more lines to match. 

“Did you forget to count?”

“Uh.. that was.. number five?” The blows were blending together, a dull pulsing sensation creeping in to offset the sting.

“Four.” Whistle, announcing the next.

“Five,” Gladio grunted. "Fuck. six, seven, shit. Eight.“ He lifted an arm. Couldn’t hold it. His muscles were jelly.

"Are we finished, then?” Ignis asked, noting the motion.

“You tell me.”

Hiss. Thwack. One more mark just above the knee. Beads of red rose to the surface. A wet tongue laved at broken skin. Gladio made a pleased sound and flexed. More laps at the wound, then Ignis stood and licked his lips.

Eleven stripes total, all in a line. There was no sign of the tan, rough skin that covered the rest of Gladio’s frame. Angry red ridges bled together instead, hot to the touch. 

Ignis set the cane aside to be cleaned. Peeled his gloves off and straddled Gladio’s calves. Ran his hands up Gladio’s legs, back of the knee to the small of his back. Slow. Reverent. Loving. “They’re stunning, you know.” He reversed his course. "How do you feel?“

"I’m good,” Gladio said. “Thanks, babe. Needed that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	14. Promptio. Sunshine. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty WOR Promptio.

It’s been three years, and the sun is officially gone.

It was gradual, the darkness. Crept in so slow nobody noticed. Started a week or two into the road trip. They didn’t even question it.

Hindsight’s a bitch.

Gladio is dressed like a hunter. It’s standard issue: fatigues, vest, tags just in case. The rest of his clothes are laid out on the bed. He doesn’t have much. A tank, insignia fading, paint peeling off. He wore it proudly, right up until the weather got cold. Two leather jackets, one sleeveless, the other thick and padded. He packs both, even though he favors the padded one these days. Leather pants to match. He’s grown used to the chafe. The other pair, denim, used to be white. They’re tan now. He thinks. Can’t see ‘em properly.

Boots, red at the bottom, and that’s it.

Well, mostly it. The other thing- he considers. Pulls it out of the armiger. Smoothes down the sleeves. It’s not going back in, that’s for sure. 

Gladio doesn’t store anything there anymore. Doesn’t trust it.

Their dresser is half-empty, even though it’s shared. Prompto’s things are divided between two drawers; one for his clothes, the other growing dust on the handle. It’s where his camera is kept. And the photos. From before. They don’t open that one. Haven’t in a long time.

Gladio slides his drawer open. Folds the uniform. The sleeves are still crisp where Ignis ironed them before they set out. Not to be worn until- well. Maybe not ever. He stacks it neatly inside. The drawer shuts with a thud. He isn’t sure if leaving the uniform behind is a promise that he will return or if it’s a sign that he doesn’t believe anymore. Could go either way, except he’s not coming back.

Clothing is placed, piece by piece, into a duffel. He zips it up. Sits on the bed and laces his boots, then hefts the bag over his shoulder. Starts toward the door. His eyes catch on a decorative vase. He passes it every day, hardly ever gives it a glance anymore. The flower hasn’t been watered in a long time. Doesn’t need it, and water is scarce. 

Hollow dried stem, leaves long disintegrated, petals papery-thin, dulled but still yellow. A large disc in the middle, covered in seeds. He allows himself the luxury of tracing the texture. Teases the top of a seed with his thumb. Nails dig into the honeycomb crack separating it from the rest. It pops out into his hand. He looks at it in a detached sort of way and tucks it into his pocket. Opens the door and slips out.

Cowardly, sneaking away in the dead of night, but not unexpected. It’s always night now, and he gave up on being brave a long time ago.

********* 

When they are reunited, the survivors will whisper: the sun is returning. Gladio will dare to hope for the first time in ten years. They will hear the truth, that they must fight and then grieve, and that hope will die just a little. 

Later, much later, he’ll show Prompto the seed. They’ll plant it together, make wishes against breathless lips. The first flower in ten years will be a sunflower. Prompto will name it, and Gladio will laugh, tracing constellations into freckles formed by the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	15. What Noct doesn't know. Promnis. Explicit (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty Promnis, trans everybody. Semi-public sex.

Prompto should have known something was up.

For starters, there was the speed at which Ignis pulled into the gas station.

Also, the angle he parked at.

And the fact that the car was too far from the pump to actually fill the tank.

“Uhh…” Noctis said.

Ignis raised one eyebrow at him, already on his way toward wherever it was he was going. Noctis gestured in response; from the pump to the car and back again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ignis said. He tossed Noct the keys.

That was the fourth hint. The fifth was when Ignis announced he was going to buy curatives while bypassing the convenience store’s entrance in favor of the alley running alongside.

“Come along, Prompto,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice.

Yeah. Prompto should have known.

The moment they were out of sight, Ignis grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into an alcove flanked by two generators and an empty storage container. "Mmph,” Prompto said. It wasn’t what he intended to say. He was intending to say something though, wasn’t he?

Not important.

He let himself be shoved against the wall. Grinned against Ignis’ lips when his head hit the brick. "Iggy,” he said, “Not that I’m not into it, but what-” Lips against his again, rougher this time. 

Okay, yeah. Not talking. Got it.

He let Ignis have at it, because frankly it was getting him hard pretty fast. Strike that. Really fast. Like all it took to get off was Ignis’ thigh pressed between his legs. Like Prompto went from no idea sex was even on the table to soaking his briefs in three seconds flat. He collapsed, let himself slide down the wall. His dick was still pulsing.

“Fuck,” he said, leaning his head against the brick. It was warm on his hair. "Pretty sure I just squirted.” He cupped Ignis through his pants. "Here. Lemme- holy shit, Iggy, have you been wearing that all day?”

“What was I supposed to do? Fumble around with it behind the Crow’s Nest?” Ignis asked. Man, he was cute when he blushed. And hot when he was packing a massive dildo. Well, all the time, really. But especially then. Which also happened to be right the fuck now.

“I was thinking more like get us a hotel and send the guys for dinner,” Prompto said. He ran a hand up the toy, back down, and squeezed. It had a good texture, even through Ignis’ pants. There was a curve to it, and it was bigger at the head than the base, and cut, with a thick vein running down the underside. 

Ignis found his fly and unzipped. Their knuckles bumped, and then Ignis was pulling his underwear down just enough to reveal the head. "Lick," he said, using his other hand to guide Prompto forward. 

Gods, was that sexy. “Yeah,” Prompto breathed. He opened his mouth and let his tongue tease the head of the toy, then licked over the slit. “I don’t think I’ve seen this one before,” he said, sliding the front of Ignis’ underwear the rest of the way down and tucking it under the base. He rested the toy against his cheek, staring up at Ignis with glistening lips and wide open eyes. Ignis loved that shit, and Prompto knew how to deliver.

“It’s Noct’s,” Ignis said, without a trace of embarrassment.

Prompto’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Seriously? You stole the Crown Prince of Lucis’ dildo and wore it all day, then pulled your boyfriend behind a convenience store for a quickie?”

“What Noct doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Ignis responded, voice firm. His hands curled at the nape of Prompto’s neck. "Now, if we could get on with it.“

“Fuck, Iggy.” 

Prompto parted his lips and slid forward, taking the silicone into his mouth. The toy was black with gold trim, girthier than any of theirs. Kinda tacky of Noct, to have a dildo in the royal colors. Not that Prompto was judging. It was big, and Prompto liked big. So whatever. 

He flattened his tongue and willed his gag reflex down. Ignis was rubbing one off on the base of the toy, holding it still with one hand. It bumped the roof of Prompto’s mouth with each thrust. He loved it. Kinda made him want to talk dirty to Ignis. His mouth, unfortunately, was otherwise occupied. So instead he took it upon himself to push forward again. Got a few inches into his throat. Closed his lips over two of Ignis’ fingers and swallowed. Looked up.

Ignis let out a small breathy moan. His eyes were trained on Prompto’s face. "You’re beautiful,“ he said. Prompto blushed at the words. "Your mouth is heavenly, you know that? Made to be fucked. I-”

The last word was cut off by a choke and a gasp. Ignis pressed forward, hard; then Prompto was taking in big gulps of air, drool smeared over his chin.

A snap, and the dildo slid out of the harness. "I was going to keep that on,“ Ignis said, leaning against the wall and resting his face in his arm.

Prompto peeled the O-ring off of the toy. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“Nope. This is going right back where you got it.” He opened his hand. A flash of blue, and the toy was gone. 

The look Ignis gave him was incredulous. "You didn’t wash it,“ he said, like he was mortally wounded. 

Prompto gave the harness a pat, stood, pulled Ignis’ underwear back into place, and zipped up his pants. "Armiger has special cleaning powers, right? Like a dishwasher?” He gave a cheeky grin and pressed a palm against Ignis’ cock. "You good?”

"Quite,” Ignis said. "And no, it does not. That, however, is a matter for another day.” He smiled weakly. "We best get back before the others come looking.”

"Yes sir,” Prompto responded. He planted a sloppy kiss on Ignis’ lips. "Gotta let me off the wall first, though.”

“Of course.” Ignis stood back and regarded his shirt, fussing over the wrinkles, then ran a hand through his hair.

“Leave it. It’s cute like that,” Prompto said. He dodged Ignis’ halfhearted attempt to stop him from mussing his hair, then trailed a finger up Ignis’ nose to the bridge of his glasses. A gentle nudge, and they slid into place. “There. Like nothing ever happened.”

“Doubtful, but it’ll have to do.” Ignis looked pointedly at the front of Prompto’s pants. "And your jeans?"

"I’ll change in the car,” Prompto said. 

“You’ll do no such thing.” 

“The seats are leather, Iggy.” 

A long sigh. "You will put down a towel." 

"You got it, Igster.” Prompto took Ignis’ hand and gave it a squeeze. Got a fond smile in return. "Love you," he said.

Two strong arms around Prompto’s shoulders. Lips against the crown of his head. A hand cradling his cheek, and a thumb teasing at his jawline. "I love you too,” Ignis replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	16. Feast. Fleurentia. Explicit (NSFW).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty Fleurentia featuring cock and ball torture and hints of bloodplay.

It would be cold, when Ravus’ Magitek arm pinned Ignis to the wall by his throat. Ravus would hurl insults, and Ignis would press a finger to his lips, murmur 'please, shut up and kiss me already'. 

The man would snap like a twig. 

Or perhaps Ravus preferred his lovers to be crass, in which case _you will pin me to that wall and have your way with me_ might be more to his taste. Ignis would gladly say either or both, so long as it ended in cold metal claws against skin. 

“Touch yourself.”

Sensations flitted in and back out, always just out of reach: bared teeth and fingers like knives down his chest. Fabric torn in haste, buttons sent flying, lodged in the corners of Altissia’s stone walkways like so many discarded trinkets. His own hand along the front of his trousers. His cock thickening beneath the denim, urging him on. 

“May I-“ he said, so soft as to hardly be audible.

In his head, Ravus tsked. “Pull it out of you must.” 

His zipper caught on his undergarments. "Shit,“ he stuttered. It was improper, but what did propriety matter these days? He’d personally given up on the concept when Ravus Nox Fleuret entered the courtyard back in Altissia, wiped out a unit of Magitek troopers, flicked his eyes across Ignis’ body, and called him ‘boy’.

Ignis had practically fallen to his knees, right then and there.

He grew frustrated with his zipper, elected to shove the whole ensemble out of the way, and seized his cock roughly.

“You would do well to take your glove off,” Ravus murmured into his ear. 

“I know.” Leather between his teeth and he pulled, cold air against the back of his hand. He licked his palm in irritation, took hold of himself, and started stroking.

“Slow down. This is not a race.”

He picked up his speed out of spite. "I know." 

“Give your hand a twist. There, at the top.” 

Ignis gasped, almost let himself go. This time he spit out the words: “I know.”

“Oh look, you are good for something,” Ravus purred, sarcasm all but dripping from his tongue.

“Ravus-”

He cut himself off, shoved a fist against his lips, and dug in with his teeth. Biting down like that hurt, even through the leather of his glove. He needed to- needed to keep quiet, he remembered. The sleeping car was hardly a private environ, regardless of the explicit instructions he’d given: _I wish to be left alone for a time, please and thank you_. 

They’d all been cooped up together for too long, and the last person to touch him with even an inkling of passion was… well, he was a feast, if Ignis was being quite honest. Clever eyes trained down a long, narrow nose; cheekbones sharp enough to cut; voice curt, disdainful, made to give orders.

“Am I- do you like it?” Ignis gasped. 

There, in his fantasy, the commander of Niflheim’s forces pressed the toe of his boot into Ignis’ scrotum, just at the base of his cock. "Don’t be asinine," Ravus said, flexing his foot and digging in harder.

When Ignis came, it was with one finger on his slit and two pulling at his testes, dragging them downward. He welcomed the pain. Imagined the point of Regis’ sword drawing pinpricks of blood from his neck. Imagined Ravus on the other end, disposition equal parts satisfaction and hatred. Ignis’ shirt would lie in tatters around him, his trousers would be stained with come, and his cock would stick to his stomach, soft and spent.

A knock, then, on the sleeping car door. Ignis sighed and wrestled with his zipper. Got his undergarments back over his hips, followed them up with his pants.

That, he supposed, was the end of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	17. Umbrella. Promptio. Teen and up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cute, fluffy Promptio. Implied trans!Prompto.

It was raining again. Prompto was cold, his hair was a mess, and for once in his life he legitimately wished that even one of his shirts had sleeves. 

“Noct, can you have a chat with Ramuh and ask him to cut it out? This is starting to really suck.” He picked at his tank top where it was stuck to his skin.

“You could try wearing a jacket,” Gladio said, swinging an arm over Prompto’s shoulders. “Or, you know, sleeves.” 

Prompto rubbed at his arms. “Kinda the opposite of your usual advice, big guy.” 

“What, you expect me to pull an umbrella out of my ass?” Mud oozed around Gladio’s boots. If this was a horror movie, a hand would emerge from the muck and wrap itself around his leg. The thought made Prompto shiver. 

“Or you could be a gentleman and hand your jacket over to your poor, suffering boyfriend,” he said. He looked pointedly at Gladio’s chest. "Oh, right. Then you’d be naked on top."

“Wearing a shirt with a coat is like wearing two shirts. Makes no sense.” Gladio grinned and flexed his pecs. Which Prompto could see. Because no shirt. 

He rested his hands on Gladio’s abs and leaned into him, gazing up and batting his eyes. “Please? I’m so wet.”

“Yeah? How wet?” Gladio purred. 

“Mmm. Real wet. Wanna feel that big, thick, comfy leather jacket draped over my glistening, rain-covered arms.” 

Noctis made gagging noises from behind them. "Cut it out, you two."

“Why? Because you’re jealous I managed to score a space heater for a boyfrie- ow!” A flash of blue, and Prompto was lying on the ground with the wind knocked out of him and Noctis straddling his waist. 

“Did you just warp with an umbrella?”

“Here,” Noctis said, dropping- yep, that was indeed an umbrella- on his chest. "Use it.“ 

It bounced once and popped open, right in Prompto’s face. Rude. 

He batted his arms. “Gladio, help me!” 

The umbrella was on the attack. It poked him in the chest. Blocked his line of view. Foiled his attempts to stand up. In other words, it was winning. He was going to die here, lying in the mud, defeated not by an iron giant or a coeulr, but by an expanse of nylon and a collapsible wire frame. And his boyfriend was _laughing_ about it. 

“Some Shield you are," Prompto mumbled. 

From somewhere on the other side of the thing, Noctis snorted. "That’s my line.”

“Yeah, well, what’s the use of a big, strong boyfriend if he doesn’t save you from the clutches of an evil umbrella monster?”

And just like that, it was over. Prompto found himself peering up at huge black boots, the longest legs he’d ever seen, chiseled abs, and a big, square jaw. He wasn’t sure how it was possible to for Gladio to look sexier. But this angle. Damn. The effect was only slightly ruined by the comically tiny umbrella he twirled over his head. 

Gladio pulled Prompto up. "Here. We can share." 

A huge grin spread across Prompto’s face. He took his camera out of its case and snapped a photo. 

“Nah. You can keep it, big guy. It’s a good look on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	18. Home. Gladnoct. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bittersweet canon-compliant Gladnoct.

_Let’s go back and play video games._

_Go back where?_

_Back… to our hotel room?_

_Not gonna happen._

Noctis wakes up, and remembers. Lands a killing blow, and remembers. Crowds into a group photo, and remembers. Tells Ignis he’ll fix it himself, and remembers. Hooks his arms over the side of the Regalia, drifts off to sleep, and remembers.

Insomnia is gone.

Iris squeals and takes a running jump into Gladio’s arms. For one blessed moment, Noctis forgets. Gladio catches his eye and grins over Iris’ shoulder, and Noctis knows that Iris is grinning too, because this interaction, right here, is familiar. 

It’s not the first time that Noctis has called them family. It might be the first time he understands what it means.

Days blur together, an endless stream of expectations and events and people coming and going. Iris is with them, crammed into the back of the car. Then they’re in Caem, crowding around a table with what’s left of Noctis’ Insomnia: Cor and Monica, Cindy, Cid, Iris, and Talcott. It’s chaotic. Everybody’s talking at once while Cid yells over the top. Jared is paradoxically both absent and present, making himself known in the rhythm their words take when a story is told. Talcott’s got Prompto’s camera, and Prompto crouches down next to him, telling him where to point. Iris is trailing along behind Cindy, Monica and Ignis are both a little bit tipsy, and Cor is standing stoic as ever, watching it all from afar. 

Two large hands come to rest on Noctis’ shoulders. It’s Gladio, bent low to plant a kiss to the top of his head. Noctis cranes his head backward and the world flips. A peck on his lips, the scrape of stubble against his cheek, the curve of Gladio’s neck, and he’s upright again. 

Ignis doesn’t lecture and Prompto doesn’t spare them so much as a wink. The lack of response on behalf of their comrades is new. It catches Noctis off-guard every time. This time around there’s Monica, whose face has softened into something warm. Acceptance feels foreign in a different way, and when Noctis smiles back it’s uncertain. “Take that boy to bed, Gladio. Before he passes out at the table,” Monica says. Gladio nods, takes his hand, and pulls him toward the stairs.

It isn’t until they’ve settled in, Noctis tucked flush against Gladio’s side, that it occurs to him: this, right here, is what it feels like to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	19. Fall into bed. Promptis. General Audiences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promptis bed-sharing fluff.

It’s in these early hours of the morning, when Ignis’ eyes start drifting shut and the radio is playing the same Imperial broadcast on a loop, that boundaries can get a little fuzzy.

It’s in the early hours of this particular morning, after the Regalia is pulled even with the gas pump and before the key to their room is procured, that Prompto hooks his arms around Noctis’ shoulders and leans heavy against him. 

If it were the other way around, nobody would bat an eye. Noctis can fall asleep anywhere. Prompto, however, is always careful. He knows the consequences of slipping; knows how much he stands to lose. A place by Noct’s side, for one. And without that, he’s nothing.

So. He dances and fidgets, tries to hold still. Always just out of reach, except for moments like these.

Noctis braces Prompto with a hand to the small of his back. He hesitates there before circling his arm around to Prompto’s left hip. Prompto’s got his nose nuzzled into the crook of Noctis’ neck, and the look on Noctis’ face is equally bemused and fond.

Three tries, and the key finally catches on the lock. The knob sticks. Ignis gives it a rattle, lifts up and back down, and twists. His hands are deft, practiced. A shoulder to the door and it’s open. 

There are two beds against the wall, a desk, one chair, and a lamp. Ignis looks at Gladio, and Gladio looks back. It’s a standoff, familiar not in content but in frequency. Gladio gets the last word by claiming the bed closest to the door. He strips down to his boxers and slides in.

“C’mon, Iggy,” he says.

Ignis looks pointedly at where Prompto has pulled Noctis into the chair, ripped cushion and all. Prompto’s head is lolling back and Noctis is curled up in his lap.

“So wake them.”

“Gladio- ”

“Ignis. They’re not hurting anybody.” 

Another look. Arms crossed, finger tapping. A ‘tsk’, and Gladio has won. Ignis crosses the room, prods the boys into a standing position, and pushes them gently toward the empty bed. Prompto’s foot catches against Noctis’ ankle and they tumble. Their landing is broken by a small mountain of pillows, decadent for a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere. 

Noctis is trapped half under Prompto. They’re tangled together, limbs in all the wrong places, hair mussed black and gold from the center on out. There’s a glisten of saliva on Noctis’ cheek where Prompto’s lips touched down before coming to rest just under his ear. Prompto’s breath is hot and damp, and if Noctis were a pane of glass he’d be opaque with condensation, perfect for trailing a finger through; initials written in the center of an off-kilter heart.

The hours will pass. It won’t be enough. They’ll shift in the bed, tuck themselves deeper, and find new ways of being together. In the morning Noctis will cling. Prompto will ease his way out of the grip and ignore the flush crawling over his cheeks. They’ll shower and change. Draw new lines in the sand. The day will fly by to the tune of the Regalia’s engine. Night will fall and the stars will come out, a little less bright than they were. They’ll keep driving. Lines will grow blurry. They’ll start all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	20. Fight Like a Girl. Iris/Aranea. Teen and Up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WOR badass ladies. Warning for significant age difference, both characters are of age.

“No, kid, I’m not going to train you.”

Iris padded along behind her, an enthusiastic dichotomy of goth schoolgirl fashion and irritating cheer. She was a good kid, could hold her own in a fight. But Aranea wasn’t one to take on strays, and Iris had been hanging around for weeks, waiting for her to drop even the tiniest scrap. 

The question was always the same:

_Can you teach me to fight like you? Please?_

She was rebuffed every time, and every time she tilted her chin up and stared Aranea down with those big, brown eyes. 

Shiva, how did Gladio ever say no to her?

Oh right. He didn’t.

“No,” Aranea said, because somebody had to. They’d arrived at the bunkhouse. She undid her ponytail and shook out her hair, then began the process of unstrapping her armor. The bed wasn’t much but it was hers: seven by four, some space underneath, and a threadbare blanket she could either hang by the bedposts or wrap herself up in at night. Eleven more bunks, all occupied. Lucian, Galahadan, folks from Niflheim. Didn’t matter, long as you were cool with being crammed together like so many sardines in a can.

They were out of those. Not likely to find more.

“Big brother’s not training you?”

Iris frowned. Tucked her skirt under her and sat down. "Says he won’t be the last Amicitia standing,“ she mumbled.

Right.

“Well, shit, kid.” Aranea started unlacing her boots. She tugged at one by the heel. It didn’t budge, so she loosened it up a bit more. "You should listen to your big brother. Family’s important.“

“Noct started training at nine,” Iris said. Strong calves paired nicely with well-defined hamstrings when she pulled her knees up to her chest. Her skirt was too short for that. Not that Aranea had any room to talk. 

“You started young, too. Halfway decent, from what I hear.” One boot slid off, then the other. Finally. Wool socks were next, standard Hunter fare, because Aranea had needed new socks. She’d resisted giving up the rest of her armor. The leather was torn and torn again, and it was always Iris that sewed it back up. Aranea could do it herself, but she liked that the kid had a job. Feeling useful was important, especially given the times.

“ ’Nea. I’m twenty-one now.“ The words implied something they’d been dancing around, something more than just training. 

"And I’ve got six years on your brother,” Aranea reminded her. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it. She made a point of eyeing Iris’ skirt. "You’re on display, there, Squirt. Not very ladylike.“ 

Iris eyed her right back. "Yeah, well, you fight like a girl.”

“Yep,” Aranea said. She laid down. Lifted a leg above her head and gave it a stretch.

“So you gonna train me?”

“Nope.” 

“C’mon. I wanna ride your spear." A huff of breath, and Iris was giggling.

Aranea snorted. "Yeah, you do.” She shuffled to lie on her side, propped an arm under her head. "Bet you can’t handle it.“

"Bet I can,” Iris said, flashing a smile. It was sincere. Tentative. Really damn cute. Made something warm and shy creep its way into Aranea’s chest.

“Piece of advice, kid. Back off on the puns.”

“Make you a deal." Dust kicked up under Iris’ feet when she stood. "You give me a lesson, stop calling me kid, and maybe I’ll buy you a drink." She pulled Aranea up and balanced on her toes. Still had to crane her neck to meet Aranea’s eyes. 

"Just took my boots off,” Aranea said. She knew it was a last-ditch effort; a half-assed, flimsy excuse. 

Iris scooted around her and bent down to dig under the bed. "And you’ve got a perfectly good pair of heels.“ She held them out like an offering.

Well. She wasn’t wrong.

The heels went on easy. Fit like old friends. Iris’ shoulders fit too, tucked under her arm. It was nice. New. "You got me there,” Aranea said, steering them out of the room. "You want to spar first?“

"Definitely." Iris took hold of Aranea’s hand and swung it between them. Smiled like a fool. Stood on her tiptoes again, and pecked Aranea on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


	21. Oh, Susquehanna! OT4. Teen and up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet, fluffy OT4 domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the song that Prompto is singing along to. Listen while you read!](https://noidearecords.bandcamp.com/track/oh-susquehanna)
> 
> [...and a dutch baby fresh out of the oven.](https://a9lumux160-flywheel.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/Strawberry-Dutch-Baby-1-800x534.jpg)

“What’s next?” Prompto asked. He turned down the volume on the boombox. The thing was practically an antique. It had migrated its way from a local thrift store to Prompto’s house, and then into Noctis’ apartment when he’d moved in. Noctis had a perfectly good cell phone and even better speakers, but Prompto loved the boombox, so here it was, sitting proudly on their kitchen counter. 

Prompto liked folk punk from right around 2007. Noctis kind of hated it, but he loved Prompto. The result was an apartment filled with songs about kisses behind dumpsters and kids in torn black jeans. It was cute, made even cuter when Prompto sang along at the top of his lungs.

Which he was doing right now.

There was a smear of flour across Prompto’s nose, and more in his hair, and really it was too early for this. But Gladio had dragged Noctis out of bed so they could make breakfast for Ignis, and Noctis loved Ignis just as much as he loved his bed, and Gladio wasn’t so bad either.

“Uh, you got the milk, flour, sugar, and eggs?”

Prompto shoved Noctis away from the stove. “Careful Noct, the pan is burning.”

“Not the pan, the butter that’s in the pan,” Gladio said. He lifted Prompto’s arm up and away by the wrist. “You forgot a mitt. Cast iron’s hot all the way around.” He took the pan off the burner and poured the butter into a small bowl.

“Hot like you, big guy. And I know about cast iron. Got the scar to remind me.” Prompto held his arm out palm up, revealing a silvery-white line running just below his pulse point.

That’d been… well, Noctis felt personally responsible for that one.

“Everything’s mixed,” Noctis said. “It’s just gotta go in. Gladio, can you put the pan back? Prompto, you got the egg timer? Is the oven preheated?”

“Check, check, and…” Prompto waited for Gladio to return the pan to the burner before pouring the butter back in. “Check. Gotta move fast, though. Butter’s gonna burn again.”

A guy and a girl started singing over top of an upbeat guitar. The song was about a river called the Susquehanna. Noctis had never heard of the place; didn’t even know where it was. It certainly wasn’t in Lucis. He poured the batter mix into the pan, and Prompto set the egg timer.

Then they waited.

The timer was only set for a minute, but apparently that was too long. By the time it went off, Gladio was doing one armed pull-ups on the bar he’d installed in the hallway between their living room and the bedroom, and Prompto was fast forwarding through songs. Noctis wrapped his arms around Prompto and directed his attention toward Gladio, planting soft, suggestive kisses along his neck.

“Burning again,” Gladio said, pushing his way back into the kitchen. There was a clatter and a curse, and when Noctis turned around Gladio was standing at the kitchen sink running water over his hand. “Get me some ice?”

“On it,” Noctis said. He filled a bag with ice, wrapped a towel around it, and passed it over. Prompto took a pot holder and very carefully transferred the pan to the oven, then flipped on the light.

They all crouched down to watch the dutch baby do its thing. It always took longer than they thought it would; ten minutes in and nothing was happening. “Do you think we should check on it?” Prompto asked, reaching for the oven door.

“Stop squirming, squirt. You open the oven, the magic won’t work,” Gladio said. He grabbed Prompto around the waist and pulled him into his lap. 

The song ended and the tape clicked off. Noctis smiled when he registered that yep, Prompto had managed to find a tape of a band from 2007. He leaned against Gladio’s side and interlaced his fingers with Prompto’s, closed his eyes, and drifted off.

An elbow dug into his ribs. He mumbled a “hey” and pressed his forehead into Gladio’s bicep. Prompto shook him.

“Noct, you’re missing it.”

The world was blurry, and Prompto was blocking his view, so yeah, Noctis was missing it. He said as much. 

“Sorry,” Prompto said. He moved to the side.

The mess of eggs and flour and burnt butter, plus a million other ingredients, had puffed up bigger than the pan. It was one of Noctis’ favorite breakfasts, one of Ignis’ too. Noctis remembered standing on his tiptoes to watch Ignis pull a dutch baby out of the oven when they were both kids, too young to be messing around with cast iron. Ignis had set the perfectly risen, golden-brown pancake on top of the stove and drizzled apples and cinnamon syrup over the top, then cut it into pie-shaped quarters and served it up. The best part was watching it collapse within seconds of the cold metal knife piercing the top.

Noctis had the honors this time. He selected a knife, pressed the tip into the center of the pastry, jiggled it along toward the edge, and carefully plated four slices. Prompto let out a gasp when the dutch baby collapsed, Gladio ladled stewed apples over the top, and Noctis smiled proudly at the results. 

“Success!” Prompto said, sifting powdered sugar over everything, including the counter. “Now who’s gonna go wake up Iggy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr.](https://itsalwaysbloodmagic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
